Taking part in a conversation about what is or isn’t art is the intellectual equivalent of masturbation; it’s probably fun for you but isn’t of much utility to anyone else. I obtained a four-year degree in art during my early twenties which means – beyond accruing an obscene amount of debt – that I’ve spent more than enough time locked in my own head, enamored with how wonderful my own thoughts were on the subject.
This is not something I’m proud of.
That being said, I’ve found that thinking intentionally about anything is rarely a waste of time, just as long as you don’t allow the procesc to transform you into a pretentious douche. The net outcome of my autoerotic cognitive fiddlings? Two things:
The first item above is self-explanatory but the second is why I instinctually dismiss performance artists, ‘found-object’ impresarios or anyone else whose manifesto over-leverages the word ‘exploration’ and tend to revere potters, illustrators, photo-realists and graffiti writers.
Smug is an exemplary example of the latter two. Anyone who has attempted to draft anything with aerosol will attest to how difficult it is to get it to do what you want it to. I tried my hand at it during my late teens and was instantly repelled, knowing immediately that I didn’t possess the patience to be competent, let alone great. Just look at the images I’ve collected above, marvel at their draftsmanship and the artist’s mastery of color – can you believe a human being is capable of this shit? Attached is just a small sampling of his work, hit up his Flickr for loads more.